


Try to Kill the Pain

by FacelessGhoul (MorphineFangs)



Category: Bleach
Genre: Anorexia, Depressed Ichigo, Depression, Dissociative Identity Disorder, I took away Shiro's famed black and yellow eyes, Ichigo and Shiro are both in a psych ward, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Muteness, Self-Harm, Semi-Mute Ichigo, Smoker Shiro, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, alternative universe, psychiatric ward, uh you'll just have to wait and see, well sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-04 06:11:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6644479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorphineFangs/pseuds/FacelessGhoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU.  When Ichigo's mother and sisters are killed in a car crash, Ichigo is overcome with grief and attempts to take his life.  When he does not succeed, he is checked into a psychiatric ward called Frostvale Asylum, far away from his home in Karakura.  </p><p>It's not the worst as far as psychiatric wards go, but that doesn't mean it isn't one.  His behavior is monitored and regulated, and his new roommate is a strange albino named Shiro who has no memory of his past or how he even got there.</p><p>It's supposed to be good for Ichigo.  At least, if he ever lets anyone in to help him heal, it would be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Trigger

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING!! Please don't read this, or read with discretion, if you are easily triggered by suicide or self-harm, including but not limited to cutting and burning. This story will have a lot of that in the near future.
> 
> I am not romantacizing self-harm, suicide, or mental illnesses. If you are having thoughts of suicide, please go to the nearest hospital emergency room, or call the suicide hotline.
> 
> While I have knowledge and some education of mental illnesses, I don't claim to be an expert by any means. If you find something that is inaccurate and/or offensive in regards to any mental illness, please feel free to let me know. You are not troubling me at all, and I'd rather be informed so I can fix it instead of having you unspeaking and offended by my transgression.
> 
> Again, read with caution.

It all happened so fast.

That morning, his mother told him and his father she was taking the girls on a trip, since they had a week off and had earned a little reward for getting such good grades.  Ichigo was still in school himself, and his father had the clinic to run of course, so naturally they’d stayed behind.

Only a few days later did they receive the news, and in the worst possible way.

Isshin had left the news station on in the living room, so he could listen to the goings on as per his usual, listening to it from the kitchen while he cooked breakfast for Ichigo and himself.  Ichigo had just come down the stairs, and when he saw the screen, he froze cold.

Everything the anchorman was saying was mere static in the back of his mind.

“But… that’s Mom’s car…” he distantly heard someone say.  He belatedly realized it had been him who’d spoken.

Across the bottom of the screen were the stark white words over red backdrop:

**— Fatal car crash on Karakura highway —**

His body felt a curious simultaneous sensation of numb and cold.

The words the anchorman was saying started to seep into his sluggish mind.

**_“— sadly, the mother and one daughter were both instantly killed on impact—”_ **

Ichigo’s eyes frantically searched the screen.

Which of his sisters survived?!  

Where was she?!  

Was she okay?!

**_“— the other is currently being rushed to the nearest hospital in Karakura as we speak—”_ **

That was all Ichigo heard before he burst through the front door and made a mad dash for the hospital.  When he started to notice the feeling of concrete scraping his feet, it occurred to him he’d forgotten his shoes.

That didn’t matter.

When he arrived, they were just pulling the gurney into the automatic doors of the ER.

He rushed forward after them—

— but he found himself being held back!

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.  This entrance is for ambulances only, and you can’t enter the building without shoes.”

“Out of my way!” Ichigo jabbed an elbow into the guard’s gut, “That’s my sister!”

He continued running after the retreating backs of the EMTs and his sister’s gurney, not listening to the protesting shouts of the guard.

“That’s my sister!” he heard himself yell again.

Then he was able to catch a glimpse of which one was being wheeled back to the operating room.

“Y-Yuzu—!”

Blood.

So much blood.

Blood everywhere.

It was everywhere, it wouldn’t stop.

All he could do was stare.  Mortified.  She disappeared behind the doors.

He collapsed to his knees as she left his sight.  Fell to his hands and knees.  Stared blindly at the floor.

_Yuzu… Yuzu is… Mom and Karin were…_

He bit his lip.  He couldn’t think it.

Ichigo let out a strangled sound.  He barely recognized it as his own.  A choked sob.  But no tears would fall.  

No tears _could_ fall.

He heard a sigh.  Felt a hand on his shoulder.

Felt himself being guided.  He was gently pushed down into a seat.  

Nothing had form anymore.  Everything around him was a blur.  A mixture of nonsensical colors.

Something warm was draped over his shoulders.  Another warm something pressed between his hands.

He blinked.  Looked down.  It was hot cocoa.  The steaming liquid rippled violently, as if there was an earthquake.

He briefly wondered if there _was_ an earthquake.

Oh.  Not an earthquake.  It was him.

He was shaking.

“It’s going to be alright, kid.  Ryuuken’s the best surgeon around.”

It was the security guard.

Maybe seeing him break down like that had made the guard think twice about his actions.

“A nurse is getting you some socks,” he heard the guard say.

He heard the words, at least.  They never registered in his conscious mind.  Mere sounds strung together.  So he just nodded.

Ichigo stared down at the hot beverage between his hands.  His stomach hurt.  He put it down on a table beside him.

Someone brought him a pair of something.  Tried to push them into his hands.  He gave no response.  His hands remained limp.

A tired sigh, then the pair of something was being pulled onto his feet.

His eyes trailed downward.  Socks?  Oh, right.

“Just let us know if you need anything, sweetie.”

Then he was alone.

It was a few minutes (though he didn’t notice; time didn’t exist for him anymore) before Isshin arrived.  His father silently sat beside him.

Ichigo was still shaking.  Aside from that, he was practically a lifeless, fleshy statue.

Neither of them spoke.  No words of reassurance.  None of their usual banter.  No small talk.  No anything.  Just silence.

Suffocating... agonizing... silence...

The doors to the operating room opened.  A nurse was walking toward them.

Ichigo was on his feet, “Yuzu—?!”

The nurse shook her head slowly.


	2. Unstable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meeting another main character or two, and bad influences.
> 
> You may notice a skip in the timeline between chapter one and this chapter. What happened will be explained, just not now. You'll see why.
> 
> As usual, please let me know if I have made mistakes or have offended you. Also feel free to point out spelling and grammatical errors. If you think you've found a plothole, feel free to ask about it.

When he next woke up, Ichigo didn’t recognize his surroundings.  He stared blankly around the small room he was in, uncomprehending.

The walls were an off yellow.  The bed he’d just sat up in was white.  The bed across the room to his left was white.  

On it sat some person who was just as white, but Ichigo ignored him.  

The room was just big enough to hold the two beds and— big shocker here— two white dressers.  Both of which were directly parallel to both beds.  There was a bit of walking space between the beds and dressers, and that was about it.  

His eyes slowly roamed back toward two doors.  He presumed one was a bathroom and one was the exit, but considering they were both closed, he couldn’t know for sure.

Ichigo laid back down on the bed, contemplating just going back to sleep.

Where was he?  How did he get here?

Did it really matter?

He had no one to return to.  No reason to be happy.

Ichigo’s brows furrowed.  He couldn’t remember why he felt this way.  It felt like it was important, but he just couldn’t dig up the memory.

He heard the _pat pat_ of bare feet on the floor.  He rolled his head to the side, staring tiredly at the other occupant of the room.  He was staring right back, eyes narrowed.

Eventually, the other spoke, “So.  Yer the new roomie,” he grumbled, and his voice had a noticeable accent, “ya jus’ stay on yer side o’ the room, an’ we’ll get along great.  Get in my space, an’ I rip yer throat out.  Other than tha’, enjoy hell.”

With that, the other wandered back to ‘his’ side of the room.  Ichigo belatedly, realized the guy had red eyes.  He knew albinos existed, but he’d never met one before.

If he’d met the guy before… the incident (his brows furrowed again; what incident?!)... he may have been more amazed about meeting the guy.

Normally, he may have been much more irritated with the guy for being so condescending and rude, but his usual fire wasn’t there.  He wasn’t even sure how he knew he was usually so fiery.  The only thing he felt now was dead.  Dead, yet alive.

Maybe if he just went back to sleep, he’d finally _actually_ be dead.

He rolled over, toward the wall, trying to do just that.

He would have been successful in the endeavor if it weren’t for one of the doors behind the beds opening.

“Time to get up,” said an authoritative voice.

He could hear the person walking around behind him, the jangle of keys, then a lock turning and a door opening.

“Go get your toiletries from the front desk and take your showers.  Ichigo, if you don’t have everything you need, you can ask the front desk for it.”

Then the stranger Ichigo hadn’t even looked at had left the room.

He heard Mr. White— because honestly he hadn’t got a name, and he didn’t care anyway— leave the room as well.

Ichigo closed his eyes, trying his damnedest to fall back asleep.

_I don’t care.  I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care.  Just let me sleep in peace._

Someone came in the room again.  There was a bathroom connected to the bedroom, he realized, because as the second door was heard closing, he then heard the running water of a shower from within.  

Shortly thereafter, his roommate emerged from the bathroom, though he didn’t bother gracing the guy with a glance.  He still knew it was him, because who else could be taking a shower in their evidently shared room?

“Dude, ya gotta get up.  Regulars said it’s shower time.”

Ichigo didn’t say anything.

“Oh my god, ya dramatic fuck.  Get up.”

Ichigo pulled the blanket over his head.

“Okay, _fine_.  Be that way.  Not _my_ fault if ya miss breakfast or somethin’.”

The other left the room, and finally he was left alone.  Finally.

Ichigo let his eyes close and felt sweet oblivion take him.

It didn’t last.

Of course it didn’t last.

No good things ever did.

He was shaken awake by a firm hand.

“Ichigo, you’ve been sleeping all day.  It’s dinnertime and you’ve missed breakfast and lunch.  You need to try to eat something.”

Ichigo shrugged the hand off his shoulder.

“Would you rather eat in your room?  We can’t bring you anything you’d get in the cafeteria, but you can have some peanut butter and crackers.”

He didn’t say anything.  He idly wondered if he even had a voice anymore.  The need to speak never arose within him, so he didn’t bother trying to find out.

The person who’d woken him up left again.

Ichigo stared blankly at the wall.

Some time passed.  He wasn’t sure how much.  Could have been a minute or a day for all he cared.

The person returned, setting something on the bed.

“Can you at least try to eat this?”

Ichigo knew this person wasn’t going to leave him alone until he did.  Reluctantly, he sat up and picked up the peanut butter and crackers.

He took three bites— and then his stomach was convulsing violently— he leaned over the bed to sick up every bit of it.

It felt unpleasant.  His throat and nose burned.

He felt very minor irritation, and ended up throwing the food across the room before laying back down and rolling toward his favorite wall again.

A sigh came from behind him, “I guess we’ll have to work on that.  I’ll get something to clean this up.”

Ichigo went back to sleep.

The next time he woke seemed to be the morning of the next day.  It was just like the day before, with a person coming in and telling them it was time to get up, unlocking the bathroom door, and leaving.

Ichigo fully intended to do an identical repeat of the day before, minus being talked to, eating, and vomiting.

At first, he was successful in the endeavor.

However, just like the day before, someone came in the room and tried to get him to eat some peanut butter and crackers.  Much like the day before, he attempted to eat it so the person would go away, and proceeded to vomit again.

Instead of throwing the food this time, he just quietly handed it back to the person and went back to sleep.

The third day was much the same, but the fourth day brought something new.

His roommate had come to visit his side of the room again.

“The fuck ‘re ya doin’, lazin’ ‘bout in bed all day, dumbass?” the guy asked.

As if that would make him feel inclined to give an answer, least of all a straight one.  As it was, he continued his practice of not speaking at all.

Not for the first time, he wondered if his voice was gone.  He should have been concerned, and in a way he was, but he felt like the emotion was muted, covered by a thick layer of cotton.

“Hey, I’m talkin’ t’ ya!”

Though he didn’t say anything, Ichigo did roll over and stare at Mr. White.  Ironically, he still didn’t know the guy’s name.  He supposed that tended to happen when one didn’t bother with conversation.

Mr. White reeled back, seeming a bit surprised.

“Ya gotta get up,” the guy said as he regained himself, “the regulars are talkin’ bout gettin’ the IVs and feedin’ tubes.  Trust me, ya won’t like tha’ one bit.”

Mr. White shivered, and it seemed perhaps he was talking from experience.  Ichigo simply continued to stare at him.  He could care less what anyone did.  He just wanted to sleep forever.

“Come on, jackass!” the guy snapped, and to Ichigo’s vague surprise, grabbed his wrist and yanked him out of the bed. “Ugh, ya reek.  Definitely time for a much overdue shower.”

Ichigo let himself be dragged out of the room to a desk.  The front desk, he supposed.  There were a bunch of cubbyholes in the wall to the right of the wide desk area.  Plastic containers with names taped on them were in the cubbyholes.

The guy looked the cubbyholes over before grabbing one that had Ichigo’s name on it.  Apparently even though he didn’t know his roommate’s name, his roommate knew _his_ name.  Fancy that.

The albino rummaged through the container before turning to someone with striking blue hair behind the desk, “Yo, Grim!  Berry boy don’t got any deodorant.  Spirits know he needs it bad.”

‘Grim’ rolled his eyes and pulled open a drawer, tossing the ‘requested’ deodorant through the air.  It actually landed in the container without Mr. White even having to move.

“Thanks, Grim.  Gonna get this dumbass in the shower now.”

Mr. White then dragged Ichigo back to their room.  He shoved Ichigo into the bathroom.  The other set the plastic container of toiletries on the short counter in the bathroom.

It was very sparse.  A sink, a toilet that looked very much like a public toilet with no seat cover, and a shower stall.  The counter his roommate had sat the container on was only long enough to fit said container.

Ichigo just stood there in the center of the bathroom, staring at a wall.  He wanted to go back to sleep.

“Oh, for the love o’— get the fuck in there!” Mr. White snapped, pushing Ichigo inside the stall.

When Ichigo still didn’t do anything, Mr. White’s features set into a highly irritated scowl.

“Oh, so that’s how it’s gonna be, is it?” he demanded.  “Yer gonna do this the hard way, ah?”

Without preamble, the other had yanked Ichigo’s shirt off.  When he was about to do the same to Ichigo’s pants, Ichigo grabbed his hand and pushed it away.

“Nope, nope.  We’re doin’ this the hard way now.  Yer takin’ a shower whether ya like it or not.  I’m tired of ya stinkin’ up the room.”

His roommate then yanked off his pants and underwear, tossing them carelessly behind him.  He turned toward the knobs for the shower and went to work getting the shower started.

Turned back to Ichigo, he set a hand on the redhead’s shoulder and pushed him down into a low bench built into the shower, “Sit.  Stay there.”

Mr. White turned and pulled his own clothes off, folding them and balancing them on the sink.

Maybe if Ichigo could feel stronger emotions right now, he’d feel incredibly embarrassed and annoyed with being washed by someone else, like some sort of invalid.

For that was exactly what this guy was doing.

Before long, he was being pulled out of the shower and toweled off by the other, and even dressed.

Toweling his own hair dry, Mr. White frowned at Ichigo, “Can’t believe ya made me get my hair wet again for this shit.  Honestly.  Hope ya know I’m not lettin’ ya sleep all day again t’day.  Yer hangin’ out wit’ me, ya hear?”

To this, Ichigo actually deigned to shrug.  It was the most response he’d given to the other since they’d first met.

Mr. White raised a brow at this, “Wow, ya actually did somethin’ t’ indicate ya understand what I’m sayin’ this time.  That’s an improvement, I s’pose.  Mm’kay, well, I dunno if ya know my name.  So my name is Shiro.”

Ichigo imitated Shiro’s expression of raised brow, as if to ask ‘no last name?’

“I ain’t gotta last name.  It’s Shiro.  Jus’ Shiro.”

Ichigo gave a curt nod to this.

“Awesome, now we’re gettin’ somewhere.  Now come on, I refuse to miss the most important meal o’ the day.”

With that, Ichigo was dragged off to the cafeteria.  Oddly enough, the cafeteria had a sort of buffet looking layout.  There was a lineup of various breakfast foods, and at one end of the counter were bottles of juice and water in some ice.  There were even a soda machine just to the side ( _“Oh, tha’.  Ya get two cups at most for lunch an’ dinner if yer good.”_ ).

Shiro got himself some eggs, toast with jam (on the side), and sausage.  He dished up Ichigo’s tray just the same and wandered off to an empty table.  Ichigo followed, mainly because he didn’t feel like standing around alone.

Again, he thought of how nice it would have been to stay in bed all day.

When ten minutes or so had gone by and Shiro had wolfed down all his own food and noticed Ichigo hadn’t even touched his, the albino scowled.

“Ya gotta eat somethin’.”

Ichigo shrugged.

“Oh, don’t give me tha’.  Yer a growin’ boy, yanno.”

Ichigo quirked a brow at him.

Shiro rubbed at his chin thoughtfully, then slid one of the bottles of apple juice he’d snagged toward Ichigo, “‘Kay, fine.  Don’t eat.  But at least drink all this.  Can ya do tha’ fer me?”

Ichigo shrugged again, but did decide to try.

The juice seemed to settle in his stomach much more easily than the peanut butter and crackers that had been forced on him for the past three days.  He _had_ been really thirsty, Ichigo realized.

“Good, we’ll have ya eatin’ yet,” Shiro declared with a victorious smirk.

Ichigo didn’t respond.

Then Shiro was dragging him off to…

… group therapy, apparently.

From what Ichigo gathered, since he’d ‘finally graced them with his presence’, they were going over names, what flaw they thought they should work the most on, and how they intended to improve it.  Then they were supposed to give one short-term goal they had for the day.

Needless to say, Ichigo didn’t say a damn thing when he was called on.  He sat there, staring off into space, ignoring what everyone said.

Until they got to Shiro, that was.  Ichigo told himself he didn’t really care what Shiro had to say, that the only reason he was even listening was because the bastard was right next to him.

“Yo, m’ name is Shiro.  Won’t hide it, I’m here ‘cause I’m a fuckin psycho—”

“Shiro, language!  And you’re not a psycho, we’ve been over this several times.”

“— yeah, whatever.  An’ I’m here for memory problems an’ ‘anger management,” when he said this, he made air quotes, drawing laughter from various occupants of the room, “so I guess I’m gonna work on tha’.  I was a lil nice to dear Ichi here, an’ my short-term goal fer the day is t’ put a ‘kick me’ sign on Grimmy’s back.”

More laughter from around the room, and the counselor at the other side of the circle gave a stern look at Shiro, “I should hope not.  You know to keep your hands to yourself.”

“Oh yeah, ma’am, I’m on m’ best behavior.  I’m a perfect lil angel!” Shiro smirked.

She frowned at him, “Yes, well.  This concludes our session for today.  I’d better not catch you doing anything to Mr. Jaegerjaquez’s back, Shiro, I mean it.”

Shiro stuck his tongue out at her, then dragged Ichigo out of the room.

Out of earshot, Shiro muttered, “Bitch.”

Ichigo cocked his head to the side, staring at Shiro with raised brow.

“Trust me, ya learn not to like her fast,” was all the albino said in way of explanation, then went on to say, “we get thirty minutes o’ free time now.  I refuse t’ mingle wit’ the other loonies, so we’re goin’ back t’ our room.”

Ichigo didn’t argue.  He was of similar opinion.  Although that was mostly because he wanted to go back to bed.  Being up and about was tiresome, cumbersome, and more trouble than it was worth.

When they got back to the room, Ichigo sat in his bed.  Shiro suspiciously glanced up and down the hall, then closed the door to their room.  Ichigo watched with detached curiosity as the other wandered over to his bed, rummaging under his pillow until he procured a package of cigarettes and lighter.

Shiro frowned at Ichigo, “Ya aren’t a snitch, are ya?  Not gonna squeal on me?”

Ichigo shrugged and shook his head.  He’d never tried smoking, and he knew it wasn’t necessarily good for you, but he currently didn’t care one way or another.

“Good,” Shiro put the cigarette between his lips and lit it.

Ichigo watched as he took a drag on it, held it away and exhaled, blowing a ring.

Shiro smirked at him, “Neat trick, huh?”

Ichigo shrugged noncommittally.  It surely wasn’t something that could be easily done, but Ichigo wasn’t particularly impressed.

“You smoke?” Shiro asked him.  Ichigo shook his head.  Shiro stared down at his pack of cigarettes contemplatively before grabbing it and the lighter up in one hand, crossing the distance between them and plopping down beside him, “Wanna try it?”

Ichigo didn’t say anything, but Shiro had managed to keep his attention longer than normal.  Shiro took the cigarette he was smoking and placed it at Ichigo’s lips.

“Here, try it,” Shiro said.  Ichigo frowned.  “Oh, don’t worry about the regulars or nothin’.  Grimmy’s m’ supplier, yanno.  He wouldn’t snitch on us, and he even covers for me if people ask ‘bout the smell.”

Shiro and ‘Grimmy’ seemed to have a rather curious relationship.  Ichigo quirked a brow.

“What, my relationship with ‘im?  I mean, sure, we’re fuck buddies sometimes.  Nothin’ too serious though,” Shiro replied easily, “gonna try or not?  Yer wastin’ it sittin’ here without doin’ anythin’.”

It wasn’t like he had anything to lose.  Leaning forward, Ichigo tried an experimental inhale of the thing.

And immediately started coughing like he was trying to hack up a lung.  Okay, that wasn’t fun at all.

Shiro cackled hysterically, “Oh, tha’ was rich.  This ain’t hookah, kid, ya don’t do it like tha’.”

Ichigo’s brows furrowed when Shiro called him a kid.  The guy looked the same age as him.

“Here, lemme show ya how t’ do it,” Shiro then offered, to Ichigo’s (very mild) surprise.  He demonstrated how to do it, stating that Ichigo wasn’t supposed to inhale it right away.  “Y’see, firs’ ya gotta pull it inta yer mouth, and then ya hold the cigarette away an’ _then_ ya inhale.  Got it?”

The redhead shrugged.  It sounded like it made sense in theory.

“Wanna try again?” Shiro asked, but he’d already been placing the cigarette at Ichigo’s lips again.

He decided to appease the other and try it the way Shiro had shown him, and found that it didn’t make him cough this time.  It tasted weird on his tongue, but it gave him a pleasant, dizzying rush.

He felt… happy, almost.

“Ahh, like tha’, d’ya?” Shiro asked smugly.

To Ichigo’s surprise, he actually wore a small smile.  Barely noticeable, but there nonetheless.  So he nodded.

“Got a junior smoker on our hands,” Shiro snickered, “Grimmy’s probably gonna tan m’ hide for corruptin’ the cute lil newbie.”

Ichigo looked away, toward the floor.

Shiro wrapped an arm around Ichigo’s shoulder, pulling him to his side, “Here, I’ll share wit’ ya,” he offered the redhead the cigarette, and Ichigo less reluctantly accepted it and took a drag.  Shiro laid his head on Ichigo’s shoulder, “‘s too bad ya don’t talk any.  Bet yer a fun conversation partner.”

Brown eyes slid toward the albino, and for the first time since arriving, Ichigo spoke, “... really not…”

His voice sounded foreign to him.  Soft, raspy.  It scratched at his throat.  Partially from disuse, and probably also from the smoking he'd just done.

Shiro stared back at him with wide eyes and whispered, “Ya spoke.”

“... sometimes… do that…” Ichigo mumbled, lowering his voice as much as he could in attempt to minimize the pain.

“‘S that so?” Shiro asked, laughing softly.  “Didn’t know ya were a smartass.  I think we’re gonna get along, Ichi.”

Ichigo found himself smiling that tiny smile again.  It must have been the nicotine going to his head, but he enjoyed Shiro’s presence, if only a little.


	3. To Thaw What's Frozen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The heart.

It wasn’t long before Ichigo began to view Shiro as his anchor to reality.  His dad wasn’t able to be that for him.  Though he was Ichigo’s beloved father, there wasn’t enough strength in the bond between them to keep Ichigo anchored to this world.

Not without… who was it again?  Why was it he wanted to die?

Every time he tried to remember, his head began to ache terribly.  He was disoriented, knowing he’d forgotten something, but not what it was he’d forgotten.

It felt important.  He was sure it was important, but the memory was like a mirage— always seemingly within his grasp, but whenever he tried to grab it, it slipped right between his fingers like water away from him.

There was a dark thought in the back of his mind that maybe it was a good thing he couldn’t remember.

He was blissfully unaware.

Only, there was nothing blissful about it.

After the time he’d spoken to Shiro while smoking for the first time, he still didn’t often speak, and never to anyone but Shiro.  A week passed with him typically giving only one word responses, if he gave a verbal response at all.

He still hadn’t eaten, though he’d drink a bottle of apple juice at every meal, because on some level he knew it made Shiro happy and he wanted to appease the albino.

 _Maybe_ , he thought to himself, _maybe tomorrow, I’ll try eating something… for him._

He found himself wanting to see Shiro’s smile.  Not that cheeky, nearly fake looking smirk he often plastered on his face when they were out and about, but those small, genuine smiles he’d allow to cross his visage when he thought no one was looking.  The way his eyes would light up with mirth for but a mere half second.

It was almost contagious.  It almost made Ichigo smile back.

Almost.  But he didn’t.  He couldn’t.  His face felt like it was frozen or made of stone.  Devoid of expression,unable to display any hint of emotion.

Still, those feelings were out of his grasp, buried beneath those layers of cotton around his heart.

The numbness was both pleasant and terrifying.  Even the fear he felt about the lack of emotion itself was muted.

He… wanted to feel.  Feel something.  Anything.   _Needed_ to feel.

“What’cha thinkin’ ‘bout, Ichi-berry?” Shiro plopped down beside Ichigo on his bed as he returned from wherever he’d come from.

He smelled… odd.  Sweaty, actually.  It took Ichigo a moment to figure out why he smelled the way he did.

Ichigo cocked his head to the side, looking at Shiro, “Grim?”

Shiro waved his hand negligently, “Oh, yeah, yeah.  Banged in one o’ the empty rooms y’know.  They don’t got cameras on in there, ‘cause the doors are s’posed t’ be locked.  If y’know what I mean.  Got the good stuff though, check it out,” he said, triumphantly producing a pack of cigarettes from his sweatpants pocket.  

Ichigo honestly wouldn’t know the difference between the cheapest possible pack and ‘the good stuff’.  He figured it didn’t matter.  Shiro was happy, anyway.

“Had fun?”

Shiro smirked, “Oh, a two word sentence?  Feelin’ generous t’day, are we?  I’m honored.”

Ichigo just stared before lightly slapping Shiro’s shoulder, as if to say ‘stop it’.

“... Yer no fun.  Okay, yeah.  I had fun wit’ ‘im,” Shiro muttered.

“Good.”

Shiro gave him an indecipherable look, “Yer weird.  Anyway, Grimmy’ll be by after lights out t’ unlock the shower.  We’re gonna pretend I ‘ad a nightmare and needed comfortin’ if anyone asks.  Brilliant, I know,” the albino pretended to preen.

Ichigo hummed in response, laying back into his pillow.

Shiro watched him curiously before suddenly climbing on top of the redhead, “‘Eyy, Ichi-berry, gotta fun thing t’ try fer ya.  If it’s alrigh’?”

Ichigo shrugged, and then Shiro was leaning down to softly press his lips to Ichigo’s.

“Any fun?” Shiro asked, his face a hair’s breadth away from Ichigo’s own.

“Fun,” Ichigo said simply, even though there was no inflection to indicate he was happy, flustered, or anything really.

“Mm… we gotta work on this whole zombie thing ya got goin’ on, Berry.  Makes ya a scary berry,” — Ichigo scrunched his face up at that— “y’know wha’, that’s what ‘m callin’ ya from now on.  Scary-Berry.”

Ichigo snorted, looking away.  Shiro snickered at him, then he draped himself over Ichigo and snuggled into him.

Since Ichigo wasn’t able to convey his thoughts through his facial expression or body language as usual, thanks to Shiro’s current position, he sighed and asked, “What you doing?”

“Snugglin’.  I’m cold, yer warm,” Shiro stated, “simple math, feel me,” and as if to prove his point, stuck ice cold hands under Ichigo’s shirt.

Ichigo flinched, “Cold.”

“That’s what I jus’ said.  Warm me up, would’ja?”

The redhead sighed and relaxed into the bed.  May as well get comfortable.

Shiro sat up and yanked the blanket out from under Ichigo, then laid back down, sliding the cover up over them.

Shiro sighed and spoke against Ichigo’s neck as he buried his face into it, “Gotta ask Grimmy fer more blankets over here, “‘s cold an’ ya got jus’ this lame one.  Stupid regulars dunno how t’ take care o’ no one.”

Ichigo said nothing, but there wasn’t really a need to.  He’d discovered that whether he spoke or not, it suited the albino just fine.  Shiro did frequently ask him to try speaking even if it was those one word sentences Ichigo was ‘so fond of’.  However, he also didn’t shame or pressure Ichigo when he wasn’t in the mood to speak.

Maybe that was why Shiro was the only one he spoke for now.

As it was, they enjoyed each other’s company in companionable silence.

It was sweet; innocent even.  Ichigo found he enjoyed this.

And then he was falling asleep.

When he woke, it was to Grimmjow shaking Shiro (who was still laying on top of him) awake, “Up, up an’ at ‘em, Whitey.  No one’s out there, so showertime.”

Shiro rose groggily, blinking at the blue-haired man as he rubbed at his eyes with a knuckle.  He yawned, “Time t’ get up already?”

Grimmjow laughed, “Only if ya wanna, for a little bit.  You _did_ want that shower, right?”

Shiro was then fully awake, “Ichi can come too?”

Grimmjow assessed the now awake brown-eyed redhead, “Sure, why not?  You two were sleeping in the same bed, so he probably reeks anyway.”

Ichigo would have acted affronted by the comment, but frankly didn’t have the energy.  Nor did he truly care.  Grimmjow didn’t seem to mean anything by the words anyway.  Sounded like he was just joking around and picking fun at them.

Shiro tagged him by the wrist out of the bed, “C’mon, Ichi, showertime,” the albino singsonged, rather loudly as if he believed no one else in the ward existed to hear him.  Or maybe he just didn’t give a flying fuck whether they slept well or not.

Ichigo went along easily enough.  The two waited for Grimmjow to get his keys, out and unlocked the door.

He held the door open for them, “Assuming I should get some new blankets for Ichi-berry’s bed?”

The seventeen-year-old volunteer had adopted Shiro’s nickname for Ichigo.  Well, Shiro’s oldest nickname for him anyway.  ‘Scary-Berry’ hadn’t gotten its trial run as of yet.  No doubt that one would catch on even faster.

Shiro nodded, pulling the redhead into the bathroom.  He closed the door, then gasped and pushed the door back open, “Grimmy, extra too!  Ya know it’s cold as balls in the winter!”

“Got’cha covered, _sweetie_ ,” Grimmjow said, somewhat sarcastic, as he left the room.

That taken care of, Shiro got himself and Ichigo into the shower.  They’d gotten into the habit of showering together, because it was faster and Ichigo didn’t like being left alone for very long.  At least not in the hallways.  The room was usually fine, but anywhere else was a different story entirely.

If he was left to his own devices long enough, he got a feeling that felt suspiciously like a distant sort of separation anxiety.  Not enough to break out into a full-blown panic attack, but enough to make him uncomfortable and fidgety.

As far as the hallways, he just really didn’t like anyone but Shiro.  And sort of Grimmjow.  Not much, but a little.  Shiro seemed to like him well enough, and he found himself trusting Shiro’s judgement more easily than was probably healthy.

Anyway, Ichigo was now comfortably adjusted to the routine of letting Shiro help wash him down, and returning the favor.  It was always pleasant to feel Shiro’s fingertips against his scalp as he scrubbed the shampoo in.

Soon enough, they were hopping out and toweling themselves down.

“Shoot,” Shiro muttered, “forgot clothes.”

He pulled open the door and glanced around.

“Oi, Grimmy.  Jammies?” he said in a sickeningly sweet, distinctly childish tone.

Ichigo heard the man snort, but it seemed he’d still grabbed the requested clothing and tossed it to Shiro.  They quickly dressed and gave Grimmjow the used towels.

“Okay, I’ll just stick these in the wash and go back to the front desk now.  Lemme know if you need anything,” catching Shiro’s mischievous grin, he added, “I said _need_ anything.  As in, _within reason_.”

“Fiddlesticks!” Shiro snapped his fingers.

“Behave yourselves,” the blue-haired man rolled his eyes and took his leave, leaving the two to their own devices.

Shiro mockingly imitated the man, then grinned at Ichigo and waved his hand toward the bed in a grand gesture, “Shall we, my king?”

Ichigo gave Shiro a patronizing look that only pulled hysterical snickers from his awfully giggly companion.  Ichigo’s expression cleared up and he nodded, following the other back to bed.

That morning was different.  Instead of the usual turning on of lights and call of ‘showertime’, he and Shiro woke something very, very different.

The moment the lights were on, they both heard, “Oh no, this simply will not do!  No sleeping in the same bed!  I better not catch you in Ichigo’s bed ever again, Shiro, you hear me?!  We’ve been over this _how_ many times?!”

Shiro groaned, rolling off Ichigo, “Fuck off.”

“Language!”

“No.”

“Do you want to go to isolation again?”

“I don’t fuckin’ give a goddamn a rat’s ass what the hell ya think, ya bloody bitch.”

Ichigo had the presence of mind to wonder if Shiro was attempting to fit every profanity he knew into one sentence just to offend the woman.  Wouldn’t surprise him.  Actually, Ichigo was pretty sure that was exactly what the cheeky git was doing.

“Very well!  Isolation it is, young man.  Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Ugh… hate that bitch,” Shiro muttered as she left ear’s reach.  Not knowing Ichigo was already awake, Shiro gently shook the redhead’s shoulder to rouse him, “yo, Scary-Berry.  Ya gonna be good fer a day without me?  Grimmy should be able t’ talk them inta shortening m’ _sentence_ by then.  Usually can.”

“M’fine,” Ichigo mumbled to the albino, “... hurry back…”

He said he was fine, but did he really believe that?  Why did he feel… a little upset?

Shiro stared at Ichigo for a few seconds.  Sighed, “Okay.  Take care o’ ya self while ‘m gone, Scary-Berry.  ‘S only fer a lil while.  Promise.”

Ichigo nodded.  They took their usual shower together, then the albino was gone.

Two days…

It had been three days since Ichigo had last seen him.

 _He promised.  He_ **_promised_** _._

Ichigo knew on an intellectual level his thoughts and reactions to the situation were irrational.

He knew this, but on an emotional level, he felt...

… betrayal.

… He was… feeling emotion again.

Full blown, overwhelmingly intense, nearly tangible emotion.  It was the first time he felt something so strongly, and it made him raw on the inside, with how accustomed he’d become to the numbness.

He didn’t like it.  It hurt.  He wanted to be numb again.  He _needed_ to be numb again.  The numbness never hurt.  The numbness helped him.  This didn’t.

That evening, he asked Grimmjow about Shiro.

“Shiro?” was all he said to form the question, but it was enough.

Initially, the man had shown shock that Ichigo spoke to him, but quickly hid the emotion from his face.  He’d known, from Shiro, that the boy did in fact speak, but that he only spoke to Shiro.

“Whitey?” Grimmjow scratched the back of his head absentmindedly. “Still in isolation.  I’m tryin’ t’ get him out, but they’re sayin’ he’s misbehaving too much to be let out.  Apparently bit a nurse, they said.  Said she needed stitches.  It’s bad.”

“... Oh,” Ichigo murmured, looking away dejectedly, “... shower?”

“Ya wanna shower?   _Now_?” Grimmjow asked, vaguely incredulous.

The redhead nodded, “Okay?”

“Fine, fine.  I guess.  Make it quick though.  My shift’s gonna be over here in a couple hours, and I don’t feel like making up excuses about why I had to break regulation an’ let one o’ the patients in their private washroom.  Understand?”

Ichigo nodded mutely.

“Good.”

He felt he needed the shower.  He wasn’t dirty.  Not physically, at least.  Not on the outside.  He felt dirty.

He turned the heat up as high as it would go— which, all things considered, wasn’t high at all.  It only barely burned against his skin.  Made it a bit pink, and that was it.

Something or another about being against regulation to have it high enough to truly burn, what with the numerous self-harmers and all.  He recalled someone telling him that when they’d gone over all the ‘regulations’ designed for their ‘own safety’.

A pity. Ichigo would have enjoyed the eventual numbness brought on by a scorching hot shower.

As it was, he had to settle for ‘moderately hot’.  Oh well.

When he got out of the bathroom, he decided to flop down on Shiro’s bed instead of his own.  It smelled like him, silly as that strangely reassuring thought was.

He lay there for a while.  Who knew how long?  He sure didn’t.

That was when he found himself abruptly wanting to smoke.

He’d only done it a few times since the first, and only ever with Shiro, but now he wanted— no, _craved—_ it.

More than the shot of dizzying euphoria the nicotine provided, he craved the scratchiness inside his throat.  The burning sensation.

Tiptoeing to the door, so as not to arouse suspicion, he peeked outside.  His and Shiro’s room was right across from the desk, so he could see clearly no one was there.  Negligence on their part, but good for him.  No one patrolling the halls either.

Shutting the door quickly, he clambered onto his roommate’s bed.  Shoving a hand under the pillow, he quickly found a hole in the fabric of the mattress.  He fished around inside it until he found a small pack and lighter.

Found it!

Victorious, he pulled his prize out and held a cigarette between his lips.  He’d seen Shiro lighting one many times, and tried a couple times on his own, so he had the technique down.

The first drag was amazing.  The rush of nicotine.  The burn in his throat.  Ah… he’d needed this.

Then, contemplatively, he stared at the small silver zippo in his hand, and an idea began to form in his head.

This would do nicely.

Flicking down on the thumbwheel, he received a tiny white-yellow flame for his efforts.  Beautiful.  It glowed in the darkness of the bedroom.

Perfect.

Holding his forearm aloft, wrist down, he dragged the flame along the thin, sensitive skin of his forearm.  Clenched his teeth.  Gave a wince.  But he didn’t stop.  Already, he was being flooded with adrenaline and endorphins.  It was almost better than the smoking already.

His heart was like a butterfly’s wings, beating rapidly inside his chest.  It was just so…

_Yes, yes, yes._

He dragged the flame up and down his forearm a few more times for good measure, then turned his arm over to admire his handwork.  Flicked off the lighter.  Red, wrinkled stripes scorched the skin in vertical lines.

It was pretty to look at.  It was better, but not great.  He wasn’t sure what more he wanted, but this wasn’t good enough.  He needed something just… more.

Finishing off and snuffing out the cigarette on his hand, he stuck the butt back in the pack like he’d seen Shiro do so the ‘regulars’ wouldn’t find them and know what they’d done.  

He stuck the pack and lighter into the hole, trying to bury them deep in the foam so they wouldn’t be easily found by anyone other than Shiro, who would know they were in there.

All the while, he considered his line of thought just now.  What could possibly be better than those burns that now were on his forearm?

Ichigo winced with a hiss when something nicked his finger inside the mattress.

What was that?

His fingers curled around something.  A handle.  He pulled out the object, examining it closely in the darkness.

It wasn’t so dark he couldn’t tell what it was.

A knife, pale and ornate.  It definitely reminded him of Shiro when he set eyes on it.

That wasn’t what drew him in.

On the edge of the razor sharp edge of the blade was something, not a lot, but still there— crusted, a dull red-brown color.

Then he knew what he needed.

Carefully, he used his fingers to rub off what he could of the dried, flaky blood.

As he held the blade to the skin of his already burnt wrist, he wondered where Shiro had done it.  Shiro always wore short sleeves, almost as if on purpose to make a statement, so it hadn’t been his arms.

This gave him another idea.  Slowly, he pulled his pants down, revealing legs that, while not as thin as they could be, were still too thin.  He hated this way he looked naked recently, but he wasn’t going to think about that.

He needed this.  Needed the release.  Needed the numbness that would come of it.

Gradually, he was pressing the blade against the inner portion of his left thigh.

Red droplets bloomed beneath the sharp blade.  He dragged it up his thigh.  A long red line belatedly appeared.  Small streams rolled down once tan, now pale skin.

At first it was a sharp, burning sort of sensation he got from the slice.  But quickly, the numbness came.  Blissful numbness.  He could no longer feel the skin around the cut area, and it suited him just fine.

He watched with rapt fascination until the blood landed on the bed, soaking with fabric.

In the back of his mind, he realized this was Shiro’s bed he was staining with his blood.  He wondered if Shiro would be mad.  He’d have to apologize for the mess, he thought dazedly.

Blood was splotching together on the blanket, forming a rough, thick stripe as the streams merged.  It was so stark, so visible, the red on white…

… red…

… and white…?

Red on white… white on red… just like…

… like…

… that day.

Ichigo’s breaths were coming quicker.  Too fast.  Dizzy.  Blood.  So much blood.

Mom.  Karin.

… Yuzu.

They were gone.  All gone.  Gone, gone, _gone_.

Furiously, he slashed the blade up his arm.  Again, and again, vertical red lines appeared.

_Disappear.  Disappear!  Make it stop, make it go away!  Don’t want to remember!_

Tears were rolling down his face.  Hot, wet streams.

They mingled with red droplets, translucent saline merging in this red to make pretty, tiny patterns.  It was mesmerizing.

And still, the memories were haunting him.  Flashing through his mind.

Ichigo threw his head back and _wailed_.

* * *

 

Shiro had finally gotten out of his confinement in isolation.  He’d gotten out an hour ago, before lights out, but had decided to spend some quality time with Grimmjow to show his gratitude.

Surely, Ichigo wouldn’t mind waiting just one measly hour more. He was probably sleeping like a cute little baby right about now.

Surely, his precious little scary-berry was fine… right?

What was this painful twisting in his gut?  He didn’t like it.

He couldn’t even focus on the conversation he was having with Grimmjow at the front desk.  Instead, opting to nod idly to whatever the blue-haired man was saying.

Why couldn’t he stop worrying?  Ichigo was _fine_.  Grimmjow already told him the kid had asked for a shower a while ago and was laying on Shiro’s bed last he’d checked.

He was fine.  He was _fine_ —

— the silence of the teen ward was broken by a loud… distinctly distressed wail.

Shiro knew that voice.

Just then, Grimmjow spun around to check the surveillance monitors.

“ _Fuck!!_ ” he’d yelled.

The man was on his feet in an instant, wrenching Ichigo and Shiro’s shared bedroom door open.

“Ichigo!  Ichigo!!”

Shiro stared blindly after the man.  He hadn’t looked at the screen.

He was walking after Grimmjow into the room, though he was only faintly aware of this fact.  The blue-haired man was already dashing for the phone.  Shiro knew because he could hear the man shouting, “911!  911, we need an ambulance!  Now!!”

Shiro stepped into the room, eyes falling on Ichigo’s malnourished form, painted red.

“I—… Ichi-berry?” he asked, softly, denial blatant in his tone, “... Ichi…?”

The redhead’s eyes were glazed as they fell on Shiro’s pale form. He gave the albino a lopsided smile that didn’t fit the expression in his eyes.

His body may have still been animate, sluggishly slow, but those were the eyes of a dead man.

Shiro’s bottom lip trembled.  Another couple steps forward and he was falling on the bed beside Ichigo.

He grabbed the redhead’s too still form, clutching him to his chest and screamed.

Just screamed, and screamed himself raw and hoarse, and only screamed more.

“No!  No _god_ , no!  ‘M not ready!  Ichigo!  Don’t ya _dare_ die on me, asshole!  Stay awake, fuckin’— Ichigo. Ichigo?!  No, n-no, no… I-Ichigo…”

The boy was going limp in his arms.  Shiro’s hands frantically skittered over Ichigo’s body.  He searched out and tried in vain to hold shut steadily bleeding wounds.  The blade Ichigo had used fell to the mattress with a thump when Ichigo’s fingers went lax.

Shiro froze, unable to look away from the white, red-stained metal.  It wasn’t new to see the blade look this way, but it had never been with any blood other than his own.

_Of course.  Of fuckin’ course!  How could I be so fuckin’ stupid, he— he…!_

“Shiro.  Shiro?!  You need to let go of ‘im, the EMTs are here.  If you don’t, he’ll…”

“I-I’m not leavin’ ‘im,” Shiro whimpered pitifully, “please, don’t take ‘im away from me.  I j-just.  He was finally… talkin’... t’ me, please d-don’t…!”

“Let him come.  We’re wasting time, and it won’t hurt anyone to let him stay with the boy.  Something tells me he won’t stray far from the kid’s side anyway,” said a feminine voice, all while Ichigo was being pried from Shiro’s cold, stiff hands.

No one pulled Shiro away from Ichigo.  Instead, a gentle hand guided him along as he refused to let that head of orange, unruly hair out of his sight.

He was soon in the back of an ambulance.  Ichigo was in the center on a stretcher set into a counter-like centerpiece.  Many trinkets and supplies Shiro didn’t understand surrounded them.  He vaguely noticed that the back of an ambulance looked much bigger on the inside than the outside.

One of the EMTs was starting up a drip, another inserting the IV as they all worked in tandem.

“Can’t transfuse blood until we get to the hospital.  This will have to do,” said the third, a man, as he hooked up some clear liquid called ‘Lactated Ringer’s’ to Ichigo.

“Time is of the essence.  Even if we get him a transfusion the moment we get in there, he could still bleed out,” said the female who’d let Shiro come, “ _please_ tell me one of you knows his blood type.”

“A positive,” a soft voice spoke.  Grimmjow.  He was beside Shiro.

Shiro hadn’t even known he’d come along too.

He watched as so many liquids flowed into Ichigo’s wrists from the two IVs hooked to either wrist with attentive care.  His poor, too thin, frail wrists.

Shiro unconsciously reached a hand out to brush back an orange fringe.  Soft.

There was nearly no contrast between Ichigo’s skin and Shiro’s own now.  His lips were pale and tinged a very faint blue, no longer holding that luscious red color he’d grown so fond of over the past weeks.

“Ichi…” he sobbed.

Ichigo rolled his head to the side, reacting belatedly, but reacting nonetheless to Shiro’s voice. Staring dazedly, mostly unseeing, at Shiro.

“‘S gonna be… kay…” Ichigo whispered softly to the albino.  For but a second, he reached up to touch Shiro’s hand, and then the redhead fell limp.

His eyes slid shut.

They didn’t open again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> END!  
> ....  
> ....
> 
> ... Just kidding.  
> Okay, but really, let me know what you think. As usual, I'm my own beta, and I suck at beta-reading as is. So! If you catch any mistakes, you know the drill.  
> Until next time.


	4. The Pieces Won't Pick Up Themselves, You Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of fluff, a little bit of dubious smut for you. Not so much angst.
> 
> ... This time. Rest assured, no one's 'cured'.

He awoke to white walls, much like before.  Both times before.  He could remember.

In startling, heartbreaking clarity, he could remember.  All dead.  His mom.  His sisters.   Precious little Yuzu and Karin, only just turned twelve.  

Dead.

Ichigo sighed miserably.  Closed his eyes.

Only now when it tightened did he notice the hand clasping his own.  Ichigo blinked his eyes open again.

“Shiro?” he asked quietly.

The albino woke with a start, “Yer awake!” he cried, leaping on the bed, and consequently on top of him, and proceeded to cling to him for dear life. “Fuck, Ichi, I thought I’d lost ya!  Don’t ever do that again, ya hear me?  Never.”

Ichigo frowned, “... Sorry…”

Shiro pulled back, staring at the redhead somberly.  Ichigo realized with a start how red and puffy the albino’s eyes were.  He had to have been crying for hours.

He could only repeat, “S-Sorry.”

“Please don’t kill yerself, Ichi,” Shiro begged in a much softer voice, “I just met ya, and I wanna get t’ know ya.  Everythin’ about ya.  If ya die now, how ‘m s’posed to do tha’ then?  I know it ain’t much, but ‘m here an’ if ya were gone… I mean, if ya wanna go, it’s fine, I-I… I mean— a-ah… well…!”

His companion somehow managed to blanch (which should have been impossible… he thought), and he floundered for the right words.

“Sorry,” Ichigo said again, as if it was the only thing he knew how to say.

He wasn’t so sure he regretted hurting himself like he had, but he knew he definitely regretted making the other cry.

Shiro sat further back, still straddling Ichigo’s thighs, but no longer invading the redhead’s space quite so much, “If… if ya gotta have a reason t’ stay, it can be me.  I know it’s not worth much.  I-I’m not worth much, but—”

“You’re worth… a lot,” Ichigo murmured, interrupting him.

The other nodded with a gulp, “Yeah, well.  Even if ya got no other reason t’ stay.  I can be yer reason.  If it’s alrigh’ wit’ ya.”

He smiled faintly, “... Kay.”

Shiro smiled back.  It was that real smile of his that Ichigo cherished so much already.  The one that made him feel good inside when he saw it.

Then Shiro looked sad again, “Gotta know, Ichi.  What made ya do it?  Was it… was it my fault?  ‘Cause o’ me an’ bein’ ‘way so long?”

“Missed you…” Ichigo said, leaving out the feeling of betrayal he’d had at the time.

He knew it wasn’t real.  That it had been the depression, like demons whispering filthy lying words and promises in his ear.  He hadn’t been thinking clearly enough at the time to know then, for how could he?  However, he knew it now.

“Oh,” Shiro frowned, “so… it _was_ my fault.”

“No,” Ichigo shook his head, “not— n-not your fault… I missed you, so I hurt myself… but… I remembered…”

Shiro was too enraptured in the other’s words to crack a joke about him speaking a whole sentence, “Wha’d’ya mean, ‘remembered’?  Remembered what?”

“Why I tried to kill myself,” Ichigo said, “the first time.”

This caught Shiro’s full attention, “Then why?  Will ya tell me?”

“My mom… my sisters… they died,” he told Shiro, then added softly, “car crash.”

“Oh.  Sorry.”

“No reason to be sorry,” Ichigo smiled.  It didn’t reach his eyes, he already knew.

“... Ichi,” Shiro said, cupping the redhead’s cheek with a gentle hand as he leaned forward.

Ichigo’s heart pounded rapidly in his chest.  Were they about to kiss for the second time?

Then he noticed a rapid beeping.  Synchronized with his own heart.  He flustered, realizing it was a heart rate monitor and it would give him away like a red flag.  Or perhaps, more appropriately, a white flag.

Shiro snickered, “Who knew ya were this innocent, brat?”

Ichigo scowled, but then Shiro’s lips met his and— _oh_.  It was even better than the first time.  Ichigo melted into it, feeling just a little bit more alive as he felt the other pressed so fully against him.

Yes.  He could live for this.  He could stay for this.  To see Shiro, and feel Shiro, and be one with Shiro.

As the heart rate monitor slowed, showing Ichigo was calming again, Shiro leaned back with a grin.

“Yer sweet.  I hope ya stick ‘round fer awhile, Scary-Berry.”

“That name again,” Ichigo grumbled.

“Ya don’t like it?” Shiro teased, but Ichigo only shrugged.

Ichigo would neither confirm nor deny, but he did secretly enjoy when Shiro gave him pet names.  It made him feel warm and fuzzy.  It made him feel loved again, like when his mother would have done the same, and he did so need it.

Then the door to the room opened and a nurse bustled in.  She shooed Shiro off the bed, “Up, off the gurney. I must tend to my patient,” she chastised him.

She sounded stern, but upon closer inspection, there was a playful undertone, as if she didn’t truly frown upon Shiro’s affections.

The nurse checked Ichigo’s vitals, taking a glance at the heart rate and breath rate monitors.  She then used a blood pressure monitor, wrapping the cuff around Ichigo’s shoulder ( _“quick tight squeeze, dear”_ ).  

She then changed out the empty bag hooked to his IV for a full one.  Having been around his father, and even having helped out around the clinic on multiple occasions, he recognized it as saline solution.  Mainly used for hydrating patients, from what he recalled.

_“Always start up an intravenous with some saline fluid, if you don’t know what’s wrong with the patient, my son.” Isshin had told him._

_He was doing so with one of his more easygoing patients who didn’t mind being used as a prop for impromptu lessons to his young son._

_“Why’s that, dad?” Ichigo had asked his father curiously._

_He knew his father was a very smart man who knew what he was doing, especially when it came to medicine, but Ichigo loved asking his ‘why’ questions.  He liked to learn things_

_“A lot of problems can easily originate from dehydration, without a patient or doctor even knowing right away, and this is a quick fix if that’s the problem.  Even so, it’s always good to keep your patient hydrated.”_

“How’s the pain, dear?” the nurse’s voice broke through Ichigo’s reverie.  When he didn’t say anything, she glanced at Shiro curiously, as if willing him to explain the silence.

“Oh, he don’t really speak, ma’am,” Shiro informed her.

Understanding dawned on her face, and she nodded to that with easy acceptance.  She turned to Ichigo, “Can you use your fingers to show me on a scale of one to ten how much pain you’re in?”

Ichigo thought about it, then held up one hand.

“He’s pr’oly downplayin’, ma’am, I saw him wincin’ when I got on the bed.  Go ‘head an’ dope ‘im up good,” Shiro said smugly on Ichigo’s behalf, causing the redhead to frown disapprovingly at him.

To Ichigo’s intense shock, the nurse took Shiro’s side instead of his own. She’d probably made up her mind before she’d even asked him.

To be fair, he _did_ hurt.  All the cuts— no, gashes— were sore as hell.  The burns he’d inflicted too.  However, his line of thought was that since he made them himself, he deserved to receive the full experience of the aftermath.  Not just the immediate release he felt from endorphins and adrenaline.

Apparently, his nurse and Shiro weren’t of similar opinion.

“Jesus, I think if someone took yer arm off, ya’d tell ‘em it was jus’ a flesh wound an’ ya don’t need any medication,” Shiro muttered when they were alone again, “masochist.”

“Would not.  Am not.”

“S _uuure_ yer not,” Shiro sassily replied with a dramatic roll of his eyes.

“Pinwheels.”

“... ‘Scuse me?”

“Pinwheels,” Ichigo declared as he pointed at the ceiling.

Shiro stared dumbly toward where Ichigo was pointing, but there was just a regular white ceiling.  Nothing extraordinary about it.

Then it hit him.

Shiro snorted and burst into outright laughter, clutching his stomach, “Holy _shit_ , yer high as a kite!  Fuck, oh my god.  Wish I had a camera or somethin’ so I could embarrass ya with this when yer coherent.”

“The Furbies stole the cookies,” Ichigo told him in a very no-nonsense tone.

Shiro nodded and kept a straight face for about two full seconds before breaking down into another maniacal cackling fit.

“This is golden,” Shiro said, still trying not to laugh, “I wish I could get ya high like this more often.”

Ichigo finally tore his eyes away from the ceiling, looking toward Shiro with suspiciously wet eyes, “Shi?”

The albino jolted at the sound of this new nickname.  He whipped a tear from his eye, “Hmm?”

It had been a while since Shiro had truly laughed to the point of tears.

Ichigo spread his arms out expectantly and demanded, “Hug.”

“... Oh, alrigh’, brat.”

* * *

 

It was a few days before Ichigo was cleared to go back to the psych ward.  Frostvale Asylum, they’d called it.  It was the first time Ichigo had heard the name of the loony bin they’d chucked him into.

The whole stay at the hospital, Shiro refused to leave his side for longer than five minutes at a time.  Ichigo had discovered at some point (particularly when the man himself visited Ichigo’s bedside) that Grimmjow had somehow managed to pull some strings to make this happen.

Supposedly the blue-haired man was acquainted with the owner of the place.  Ichigo thought his name had been Aizen or some shit like that.

Not important.

Ichigo appreciated all the free time he was getting to spend with Shiro.  Not so much the bedrest.

At least Shiro made it feel a bit more worthwhile.

“What’cha thinkin’ ‘bout, Scary-Berry?” Shiro asked, climbing on Ichigo’s gurney and throwing an arm over the others chest.

“Mm… nothing much.  Think they’ll be mad at us for the whole, you know… and dragging you off with me?”

Ichigo’s tongue had loosened considerably around Shiro at least.  The only other person he spoke to was Grimmjow, and typically only in one or two word sentences.

With Shiro though, and Shiro alone, he’d carry out real conversation.

On another note, it had started to get around that Shiro was basically the only one Ichigo felt comfortable talking to.  As a result, nurses would often ask Shiro if Ichigo needed something, rather than the redhead himself.

Shiro rolled the words of his response around in his mouth for a moment, “Ah, well, I sure hope not.  I’d miss ya if they dragged m’ ass off t’ confinement.  Again.”

Ichigo silently nodded his agreement.

“Welp, Ichi-berry,” Shiro said, patting Ichigo’s chest, “doc says so long as yer feelin’ up t’ it t’morrow, we can go back t’ the hellhole.  Grimmy’s vouchin’ t’ get us ‘home’ safely,” his voice dropped to a comical stage whisper, “I talked ‘im inta a movie date an’ ice cream.  Shh, it’s a secret, don’t tell the regulars.”

Ichigo snorted, “Our little secret.”

“Yup.  Keep quiet an’ we get t’ have lotsa fun ‘fore we go back t’ hell.  Sound good?”

He found himself smiling fondly at the albino, “Mmhm.”

“Great!” Shiro grinned, procuring some pudding cups— a _lot_ of pudding cups— from god knew where.  “Snagged a buncha these from the absolutely sweet, lovely ladies at the desk— they really are _too_ kind.  I think I’m in love,” — they shared a brief laugh— “anyway!  Tonight, we feast!”

Needless to say Ichigo laughed his ass off (much to his own surprise), before ‘feasting’ on pudding cups with Shiro.

 _Mmm… chocolate_.  

His favorite.

He wondered if it was Shiro’s favorite too.

* * *

 

The very next day, Ichigo’s doctor and Grimmjow showed up at the same time.  Doc announced Ichigo had a clean bill of health ( _“but make sure to rest plenty, and would you_ quit _messing with those stitches?!”_ ).  Shortly thereafter, a nurse came and took all the stickers off him and unhooked the monitors and IV.

Everything went smoothly, aside from all the blood that gushed randomly out from beneath the bandage his IV had been prior, just after the nurse had left the room.

Mild panic ensued.  Muttered profanities were spoken and Grimmjow leapt toward the door as Shiro tried to staunch the bleeding.

“Ma’am!  Ma’am, he started bleeding again,” Grimmjow shouted out into the hall.

The nurse came rushing back in with an exclaimed, “Oh my!”

She grabbed some more gauze, ripped off the first bandage, and pressed the new one down on the wound firmly.  In a few seconds, the blood flow was stopped.

“Press hard here, while I get more tape,” she ordered Ichigo.

He complied, then she grabbed some medical tape from the far counter.  This time, she used extra, just to be sure he wouldn’t start bleeding out again.

“That was terrifyin’, Scary-Berry.  I think I’ve had enough surprises from ya t’day, thanks,” Shiro sighed, breathing a little easier now that the small crisis had been averted.

“Yes, well, hopefully this one holds.  Oh, I almost forgot.  Would you like this snipped, sweetie?” the nurse gestured toward the bracelet.

Ichigo nodded, so she grabbed her scissors and cut it off, stuffing both into the front pocket of her scrubs.  

She smiled at him again, “All done.  Grimmjow here checked you out already, so all you have to do is walk on out.  Have a nice day.”

Grimmjow had a nice car.  Sleek, mint-colored Lamborghini (of all things!) with white flame accents.  He’d fondly called it _‘Pantera’_.

Ichigo wondered who he’d killed to get a car like this.  He was a little scared to ask, because he was honestly worried Grimmjow had actually killed someone for it.  Or a few someones.

“No ruinin’ the upholstery, brats,” he informed them as he sat in the driver’s seat and Ichigo and Shiro scooched there butts across the backseats.  “That’s real leather.  No sticky fluids allowed.”

“Just gettin’ comfy.  An’ hey!  Don’t call me a brat!  Yer only a year older than me,” Shiro said, zeroing in on the ‘brat’ comment.  He poked the back of Grimmjow’s head a couple times.

“Paws off.  I’m driving, dipshit.”

“How old are you?” Ichigo asked softly, but loud enough for them both to hear.

“Seventeen,” Shiro stated proudly.

“... But you’re only a year older than me too.  And _you_ call _me_ a brat.”

“That’s different.”

“Is not.”

“Is so!”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Yeah-huh!”

“Children!  I’m dishin’ out spankings if ya don’t settle down!”

“Oh, _kinky_.”

“Shiro!” Ichigo and Grimmjow snapped at the albino.

Shiro pouted, “No fun at all.”

Grimmjow rolled his eyes, but he was laughing, “I’m taking you on a date, aren’t I?  Even bringin’ yer illicit lover you’re cheatin’ on me with.”

“ _Yer_ the illicit lover, jackass.  Ichi-berry an’ I are in _love_ ,” Shiro declared as he clung to Ichigo’s shoulders and pulled him to his side.

Unseen by the other two men, Ichigo’s cheeks reddened.  He told himself he was just overreacting, that Shiro was joking around and didn’t mean anything by it.

Yet still…

Oh well.

The movies were fun.  Shiro demanded to see a horror film (much to Grimmjow’s displeasure, as he’d wanted to see something a little more action oriented, but Ichigo didn’t care and so they’d made him pick a side).

The funny part was that Shiro was screeching like a banshee the whole movie, and at some point had jumped into Ichigo’s lap and made it his new home.

Although, toward the end, he realized the other’s mouth hadn’t been accidentally brushing against his throat when Shiro was outright pressing kisses to the redhead’s neck.  It was sending tingles down his spine.  Ichigo now realized he’d been played.

Cheeky, _sneaky_ Shiro.

When the credits rolled and Shiro’s lips brushed a specific spot behind Ichigo’s ear, he got fed up and lost it, proceeding to snog the albino senseless.

Grimmjow had let it go on for about a minute— by which point the two had gotten very touchy-feely— before climbing over the backs of their seats, pulling their heads apart from each other, and knocked them together.

“No PDA.  Get a room.  Theater’s not a place to fuck,” he said irritably.

“Jealous?” Shiro asked, licking his lips, mostly to taste Ichigo on them.  That short minute had most certainly not been enough, in his opinion.

“No fuckin’ me in the theater either.”

“Fiddlesticks!  Foiled yet again,” Shiro snapped his fingers.

Grimmjow crossed his arms behind his head, casually walking backwards up the aisle while they followed at a sedate pace, “So, ice cream?”

“Ohh, yes!  I need lotsa, _lotsa_ sugar t’ keep me up all night,” Shiro smirked.

“Plans for the night?” Grimmjow quirked a brow.

“Depends.  D’ya got plans fer t’night?”

Grimmjow considered this with a hum, “I might be able to clear up my schedule.”

“Awesome.  Does Scary-Berry wanna come have fun wit’ me an’ Grimmy t’night?  It’d be like yer welcome back party,” Shiro spoke animatedly as he dragged Ichigo along with them.

Ichigo shrugged, but he didn’t think he’d mind.  If he got to see those rarely shown true smiles of Shiro’s, it would be well worth it.

Shiro seemed to think that Ichigo’s body language equivalent for a maybe was close enough to a yes for him, considering he was looking rather victorious right about now.

The ice cream joint Grim brought them to was small, but their servings were big.  It was glorious, even though Ichigo was only able to stomach a small portion of his own chocolate.

Shiro and Grimmjow merrily finished off what the redhead couldn’t, waving him off when he tried to apologize for not eating much.

“‘S lotta ice cream t’ begin wit’, Ichi-berry,” Shiro told him, leaning in to lick some ice cream Ichigo had missed at the corner of his lips.  Ichigo turned redder than his namesake.  “‘M just really glad yer eatin’, even if it’s jus’ a lil bit.”

“Even if ya do have a terribly notorious sweet tooth,” Grimmjow pitched in, laughing.

Grim and Shiro still both silently agreed that unhealthy food was better than no food at all.  Ichigo had gotten much too skinny.

After Shiro had talked Grimmjow into one last stop at an arcade, they couldn’t put off going back to Frostvale any longer.  It was nearly dark, and they still had a fifteen minute drive ahead of them.

* * *

 

They entered the building laughing as Shiro clowned around and made a general fool of himself.  Even Ichigo couldn’t control his peal of laughter.

Then Aizen intercepted them.

“Uh-oh,” Grimmjow said under his breath.

“‘Uh-oh’ is exactly right, Mr. Jaegerjaquez.  Would you mind telling me why you’re so late returning two of my highest risk patients, whom I’d entrusted you with the care of?  Pray tell, I’d like to hear your reasoning.  Have I placed too much trust in you?” his voice was pleasant enough, but his words not so much.

“Wonder who pissed in _his_ Cheerios,” Shiro muttered in Ichigo’s ear from behind his hand.  Ichigo tried to hide the grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.

Aizen’s sharp gaze landed on them.  They stiffened.  His cool brown eyes slipped away back to Grimmjow, whose back looked like it was in the straightest posture it had been his entire life.  Military style.

Grimmjow swallowed nervously, trying his best to keep eye contact and failing miserably, “There was, uh, traffic?” he ventured tentatively.

It wasn’t an outright lie, but it wasn’t the full truth either.  The best lies always had an element of truth to them to obscure the falsity.

Aizen’s eyes narrowed, near imperceptibly.  The three of them waited with bated breath for the scythe to fall on their necks.  Grimmjow’s, more specifically, since Shiro and Ichigo were technically ‘invalids’ as of current and had been the man’s responsibility.

Then Aizen did something unexpected.  He sighed through his nose, “Do not lie to me in the future.  I will know.  On account of the fact I heard Mr. Kurosaki laugh for the first time since his arrival, I’ll overlook your little transgression.  

“I’ll even generously let slide your planned ‘welcome home party’ tonight.  Be more careful in the near future.  Need I remind you we have appearances to keep?”

They started power walking toward the teen ward when they heard Aizen’s soft call from behind them, “Oh, and… have a nice night.”

The mysterious man practically vanished into thin air after that.  Literally gone, as if he hadn’t been there to begin with.

“Bastard,” Shiro hissed, “how did he—?!”

“Dude, he knows _everything_ ,” Grimmjow whispered, “I’ve been tryin’ to hide shit from him for years now.  Never works.  He just _knows_.  Like he has magical eyes in the back of his head or somethin’.”

“Damn, so much fer keepin’ secrets from the ol’ warden,” Shiro muttered dejectedly, scuffing the toes of his laceless grey converse on the floor.

“You haven’t met him before?” Ichigo asked.

Shiro sneered, “Oh, I met him alrigh’.  Bastard jus’ hadn’t got a chance t’ show jus’ how ‘all-knowing’ he is.  Which is ‘parently a lot.”

Ichigo nodded.

Grimmjow left Ichigo and Shiro alone for a while, telling them he’d ‘have to get everything ready’.  Whatever that meant.

They decided not even to be subtle about the celebration, since Aizen, who was the most important, already knew all about it.  If anyone complained, he’d probably say he’d authorized it or something.  

Hopefully.

He’d said he’d ‘let it slide’, after all.

“Mm, I’ma get _you_ ready,” Shiro mumbled huskily, climbing onto Ichigo’s bed after Grim left the room.

“You’re really horny today,” Ichigo casually observed.

“An astute observation, Doctor Ichi,” Shiro laughed, “got anything t’ treat me?”

Ichigo shook his head with a small smile, “You’re incorrigible.”

“I’ma take tha’ as a compliment,” Shiro straddled his hips, barring him in when he placed his hands on the wall from either side of Ichigo’s shoulders.

The redhead waited patiently to see what Shiro would do.  He had an inkling of an idea already.

He didn’t have to wait long.

Quickly, his patience was rewarded with a gentle kiss to his lips.  Shiro was acting as if he would break any second all of a sudden.

Slightly annoyed, Ichigo pushed him onto his back with a growl.

“That’s not how you kiss me,” he took his turn straddling the other and leaned in close, “ _this_ is how you kiss me,” and then he closed the distance with a bruising, needy kiss.

At first, Shiro was completely taken by surprise.  As he adjusted, Ichigo could feel the upward curve of a smirk against his lips.  Shiro’s sly hands roamed up and down Ichigo’s back, those slim fingers pressing in spine tingling places and doing sinuous things to him.

Ichigo was by no means a virgin (he did have that three month fling with Orihime), but he’d never experimented with another boy.

This was entirely new.  On a whole new level.  It was that brilliant little piece of heaven he never knew he needed until he had it in the palm of his hand.

He broke away for air, panting heavily against the albino’s now reddened lips, “Sh-Shi…”

“So cute, Ichi,” Shiro breathed, enraptured with the redhead’s soft panting and flushed face as they stared with a sort of strange longing at each other.

The way Shiro looked at Ichigo, and the way Ichigo stared at Shiro, it was as if they didn’t already have the other in their arms.  As if they were still so very far away.  As if there was this need to be closer, and closer still.

Shiro couldn’t just lay there and do little to nothing any longer.  He slipped his hands under the waistband of Ichigo’s sweatpants, dragging the backs of his nails down the redhead’s lower back.  Cupped his ass.  

Ichigo’s eyes widened.

Shiro frowned, his hands receding, “Too much?”

“Mm… I dunno.  Maybe not,” Ichigo mumbled, “... we can try?”

“Only if you’re okay with it,” Shiro told him seriously, “‘m not gonna do nothin’ ya don’t like.  So tell me what’cha wan’ me t’ do.”

“Uh…” Ichigo looked away, cheeks reddening again, “t-touch me?”

Shiro smirked, “I can do that.”

Then pale hands were diving back under Ichigo’s waistband.  The redhead gasped, biting at his lip to hold back a moan.  Shiro gave him a long stroke, other hand cupping and fondling his balls.

All the while, the albino watched all Ichigo’s pretty expressions.  It was cute how he tried to hide how good it felt.  Although, he was sure it would be better to hear that lovely voice of his.

He licked his lips as he imagined how maybe he could eventually get Ichigo moaning wantonly beneath him.  It was something to look forward to.

Until then, it was all about Ichigo.

“I’m gonna make ya feel real good,” he told Ichigo, kissing just beneath the other’s jaw.

He slid down the bed until he was eye level with Ichigo’s hips.

“Huh?  Wh-What are y—?”

“May wanna bite a pillow or somethin’.”

Shiro yanked down Ichigo’s pants and swallowed him whole.

The redhead gasped sharply and cursed under his breath.  He reached for his pillow, pulling it over and bit down as he trembled.

Was it possible for a mouth to feel this good wrapped around him, or was it just a Shiro thing?  Ichigo could hardly think straight as that tongue swirled around him.

He wanted so badly to cry out, to let it all out, but someone could hear them if he did.

At the same time, that thought was exhilarating as it came to mind.  It filled him with an extra shot of adrenaline.  Someone could walk in on them any minute.  Then again, if they were quiet enough, maybe they wouldn’t be discovered.

It was a fine line they walked that ran right between pure bliss and danger.

He’d definitely want to try this again.

Then something was pressing into him— a finger?— and it should have hurt, but he was having a hard time noticing that through the haze of pleasure.

And when that finger pressed something inside him and Shiro swallowed him down just so, he was blinded by white hot wave after wave of pleasure crashing down on him like a sea of sensation.

Ichigo moaned loudly, though it was muffled by the pillow.  Tears in his eyes.  He let go of the pillow, panting heavily.  There was a distinct wet spot on it, and had he been more coherent through the afterglow of ridiculously good sex (or was it just considered foreplay?), he may have been more embarrassed or annoyed.

Shiro lapped at his lower belly, licking him clean and slipped his pants back on for him.  He flipped Ichigo onto his back and laid down to hug him close.  Shiro grinned against Ichigo’s neck, pressing little butterfly kisses up and down it.

Ichigo shivered, finding himself cuddling into his pale roommate’s warmth.

“Did’ja enjoy yerself, Ichi-berry?”

His voice sounded odd.  A feeling Ichigo couldn’t quite place.  It was almost… hopeful?

“Mmmhmm…” Ichigo was able to hum tiredly.

Maybe he should take a nap…

He only realized as he awoke that he actually _had_ fallen asleep.

First thing he was aware of was that he was on a couch.

Laying between Shiro’s knees with his head resting on the other’s stomach.  A hand was being absentmindedly stroked through his hair.  He hummed, leaning into Shiro’s touch.

“Oh goodie, yer awake,” Ichigo could feel the faint vibrations of Shiro’s voice in his chest as he spoke.  It was a strange sensation, yet also comforting.

“Mm… where…?”

“Told ya we were havin’ a welcome home party.  This is it.  Grimmy’s jus’ makin’ the popcorn now.  Want some candy?” Shiro dropped an assortment of candies on Ichigo’s chest.

He picked a chocolate bar and M&M’s from the pile for now.  He couldn’t be sure he’d finish even that.  He knew Shiro wouldn’t mind so long as he did eat something.  He had to keep reminding himself of that little fact.

Shiro wouldn’t be mad at him.  Shiro just wanted him to eat.  He’d ignore the fact he was so scared of the albino getting mad.  At him.  Him, specifically.

That was a problem for another day.  Today, he was going to focus only on relaxing.

“Aww, lookit ya lovebirds,” Grimmjow cooed as he leant over the couch.

Shiro pressed a hand to Grim’s face and pushed him away, “My Ichi, get yer own,” he stuck his tongue out at their blue harasser.

“Oh, I know he’s yours, trust me,” he said with a suggestive waggle of his brows.

Ichigo was bright red.  So someone _had_ heard.

“Don’t worry, Ichi-berry, I ain’t gonna tell anyone about you and Whitey,” Grimmjow said to ease Ichigo’s mind.  He lazily took up the remote and started the movie.

“Yo, blueberry, popcorn.  Chop chop,” Shiro demanded, snapping his fingers impatiently at the man.

‘Blueberry’ rolled his eyes and tossed one of the bags, which Shiro deftly caught.

As the night drew to a close, Ichigo realized… this had been the best day he’d ever had.  Certainly the best day since the crash, but maybe even better than that.

Maybe, just maybe, life did go on.

Maybe he’d go along with it when it did.  

At least for a little while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love being cryptic. Bad habit.
> 
> Sorry for any mistakes. I pretty much worked on this all day, and was too tired to edit and check for errors by the time I finished tonight. Might check later, but if you catch any super obvious ones, it would be an immense help to me if you let me know.
> 
> By the way, the part where blood gushed out randomly from underneath the bandage... it's based on personal experience. That has actually happened to me. It's really terrifying. Lol.
> 
> Anyway. Enough of my needless blathering. Good day and good night to you all.  
> Until next time.


End file.
